When I was 16, someone I loved and trusted violated me in the most degrading way possible. I still find the word hard to say, still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Rape. He raped me. For myriad reasons,

I’m always waiting for the next bad thing to happen or for someone to hurt me. Anxiety, depression, and symptoms of PTSD (nightmares and flashbacks) were consuming me while I tried to just let momentum and fake smiles cover it up. That’s just not working anymore.

Back in June of 2015, I entered a relationship with someone over the internet. This wasn’t my first long-distance relationship, so I was very aware of what I was getting into distance-wise. This person came off as really funny, charming,

He went back to sleep when he was done. We never talked about it-we continued dating for another year. I didn't know it was rape until recently. It was just an awful image that stuck inside my head- something I tried to ignore.

If this becomes long, sorry! So April/May 2016, thanks to a newspaper article I get back in touch with an old friend. He asks me if I’m happy in the relationship I am currently in with my partner, I admit

The most important thing I have learned is that sex doesn’t need to be scary or forced or painful or hurtful or upsetting, and those are the only words I could have used to describe it when I was with A. I want other women to know that someone being your boyfriend does not give them a free pass to do whatever they want. It might seem like an obvious thing to lots of people, but I think when you’re in the middle of something like that, it feels very complicated.

If I was placed in a room with him, I wouldn't be scared. I can deal with him, I can put up with him. The thing that would scare me, would be myself. I don't think that I could sit there, while he is blissfully unaware of the immense pain he has released inside me, like a drug, however with the opposite effect; a drug that hasn't left my body since that night.

For a whole year thereafter, I beat myself up over my stupidity for allowing our relationship to escalate that night in New York. The depression and anxiety from that experience followed me around like a dark shadow. Eventually, I began to realize that I had done nothing wrong. I didn't mislead him; he didn't care about what I was saying or doing. I didn't allow it; I felt threatened having a man nearly twice my body weight on top of me. Most importantly, I never consented.

And I barely slept that night I couldn't stop replaying what happen I did the whole way on the trip never said anything to my boyfriend. I wanted to have a good weekend with him. Later that night the guy called me and asked if I was ok and apologized for being so forceful. So I didn't want to believe he raped me I just said ok

I know now that I am no longer alone. Yes, this is still very much an uphill battle, but I don’t want to hide anymore. I shouldn't be ashamed of what happened to me because it wasn't my fault. There is this idea about a grey area when it comes to consent and alcohol. There is no grey area, if someone is unconscious, or not in there right state of mind this is NOT consent. Unless someone gives you full consent to proceed, you don’t.

I have been manipulated, lied too and I was lonely. I was expressing my feelings all over social media, hoping they would realise what they have done. Instead he made himself the victum in the situation…and this was only the

I again sat alone in a waiting room– this time waiting for the "advocate" who was assigned to my case. She came in and was angry. She kept asking me questions I didn't want to answer. She asked me how he undressed me and I didn't want to tell her that I took off my own clothes, so I told her that he did it. She said that proved I was lying. She said that I should still be playing with dolls. She complained that she had been sleeping when the hospital called her in . She sent me to get an exam.

I dont like the label 'survivor of domestic abuse'. I dont think that just because i didnt die that i survived at all. Parts of me that once were great are now gone. The person that i was no longer exists. The person i could of been will never exist. They say that you wouldnt be who you are today without the things that happen to you, good or bad. The saddest part of that is that i agree, i just know im not the person i was supposed to be anymore.

no longer have any contact with him and I grew to become a much stronger person. I was able to forgive him and myself and move forward. Anyone who is reading this, there is a happy ending for us. Don't allow yourself and others to make you feel ashamed like it's your fault. Don't give up. We are not victims but victors.

It’s been a rough year to say the least. I’ve been experiencing some major life changes, and although I’ve rekindled and began many great, fulfilling friendships and prayed as hard as I could to the Heavenly Father to alleviate this

the kid who at the time would be my best friend, later my boyfriend, and soon after my abuser. Freshman year, After a breakup with his first girlfriend I found myself talking to him alot more than i had in

We talk in English class about the concept of “Perception vs. Reality” and how literature demonstrates this universal truth. I wonder if anybody knows anyone at all as I think back to the word “Ethical” printed in the yearbook

I was 14, going into Sophomore year. He was 17 and a senior with a cool car, a perfect transcript, and a sports and voice state title. He was smooth talking and charming and sweet and cute and polite and

I thought- he reduced me to thinking- that I was nothing more than a used person, and no one will want me again. I was willing to do anything to get back together, because I knew that I will be alone for the rest of my life. I felt like a broken piece of trash no one will even look at.

Here I am at 2 in the morning struggling to find rest. Tears escaping my eyes and making their way down my cheeks. All the while I am thinking I bet he is sleeping soundly like a child. This irritates me to no end. I decide to get up and write this because I cant think of any other way to get this pain and feeling of violation out of my head and entire being.

The only thing colder than the temperature outside was the look in his eyes as he saw through who I was into what I was going to be for him. I knew what he had planned when our path skewed away from the gate to the tables. I tried to tell him I needed to go home and that it was too cold "maybe another time". Without a word I was bent over, facing away from him. With a fist full of my hair in one hand he brought his other down on me as if I had committed a crime worth being punished for.

Even as I'm typing this, I'm terrified that I'm lying, that what happened was consensual. Because I fucking said yes. But you know what? Yes doesn't always mean yes. A mentally unstable, near-suicidal, Autistic sixteen year old girl cannot consent to sex with a mentally stable nineteen year old boy. Hell, that girl can't consent to sex with anyone. But it wasn't her fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault.

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